


His Worst Nightmare?

by idontblogforsherlockholmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Fluff and Angst, John Makes Deductions, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:14:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontblogforsherlockholmes/pseuds/idontblogforsherlockholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John still has nightmares about his past life, although now most of his bad dreams were about Sherlock. To help resolve this, Sherlock suggests (not caring about the response) that he watch John. All the time. This is his worst nightmare. Or is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy!

John writhed in his sleep as a nightmare flooded his mind. Flashes of guns, men being tortured and general Afghanistan memories usually poisoned his dreams, yet these days they contained only one thing: Sherlock. His eyes rolled as he delved deeper into the nightmare, gripping the sheets of his bed and groaning slightly in anguish. Goodbye, John. John shouted loudly and started to cry tears that he dared not shed during the day. His arms were outstretched as he screamed Sherlock’s name, his whole body shaking with fear and overwhelming grief.  
The door swung open as Sherlock swiftly entered the room. He dove to the side of the bed and shook John lightly yet urgently by the shoulders. ‘Shh John, it’s okay, I’m here. I’m not going to leave you ever again. It’s okay.’ He pulled John into his arms as the doctor awoke. Instead of pulling away, John just whimpered silently into the crook of Sherlock’s chest, his convulsions slowing gradually. Eventually, after John fell asleep, the unusually troubled detective lay him back down, pulling the covers back up to the man’s stubble. He then stepped back to sit on a brown armchair by the window, settling to watch John’s chest rise and fall. 

 

John opened his eyes. He frowned at the ceiling. Then his eyes narrowed as he slowly turned his head to the right. His tired eyes met Sherlock’s even more tired ones. He frowned again as he foggily remembered waking up from a dream. What was the dream about? Oh, he thought. Sherlock. The dream was about him. Sherlock must have known that, because he usually left John to his privacy when he dreamt about Afghanistan.  
‘Sherlock, have you- have you been watching me all night?’ He swallowed, amazed yet slightly perturbed. ‘Yes. Although this may come as a surprise, I do care about you John.’ Sherlock’s eyes bore into his. Even though his skin was pale and his eyelids drooped, his gaze was still piercing and it made John feel slightly uneasy. ‘Th-thank you.’ John stuttered out the sentence with a mixture of sentiment and embarrassment. He looked away. ‘You really should sleep, though.’ Sherlock hummed in reply as his eyes closed, head dropping a few inches backwards to rest on the chair. Within seconds his breathing became much slower and his dark curls slipped at a strange angle.  
When John was satisfied that he was finally gone, he pushed back the covers. He swung his legs out and placed his feet firmly on the fresh laminate, smiling slightly at the comforting coolness. Standing up in just his boxers, he unhooked his dressing gown from the door and hurriedly walked out of his bedroom, being careful not to make much noise as he closed the door behind him. Once in the bathroom he stripped, stepping into the shower. As soon as the warm water rushed over him he sighed contentedly, letting the worries and sweat wash down the drain. John loved showers – they always seemed to cheer him up, no matter what situation he was in. As he closed his eyes and listened to the silent roaring around his head, he thought about what had occurred last night. He’d shouted out again. That wasn’t good, he thought. He’d cried too, and Sherlock had seen. Definitely not good, he thought again. He grimaced, scrunching his nose up in a comedic manner. Glancing down at his shampoo bottle he frowned. Have I really used up that much already? He shook his head.  
After creeping back into his room to get dressed, he sat down in the living room on the sofa with his laptop to type up the most recent murder. He rubbed his eyes and settled down.

Writing out what he was feeling had become a habit for John: after Sherlock left he didn’t want to post on his blog anymore – what was the point in writing about a consulting detective when you no longer had a consulting detective? But he’d never stopped writing. He wrote a personal diary that he kept in a password protected file hidden in the depths of the pointless documents that he had somehow accumulated on his laptop over the years. What he wrote was never interesting; it was just helpful and let him express what he was thinking so that nothing got bottled up. He was tired of his liquor cabinet of emotions, so he poured them all on to a blank screen. When he was done expressing his emotional turmoil, he decided to make some tea. He would usually get dressed around this time but he decided against it for fear of waking his sleeping consulting detective (when had John started calling Sherlock ‘his’?). With hot tea in his system John began thinking about food. His usual choice was toast with a side of jam, butter and on the side a small portion of complaints about Sherlock’s lack of breakfast. But today he knew he owed Sherlock for what he had done the day before: therefore, the doctor gathered the ingredients for omelettes. As he cracked eggs and added ham and chopped peppers he thought of the previous night. If it had been anyone else watching him while he slept then John would have felt violated and part of him would have already considered hiding his service gun under his pillow, but because it was Sherlock he had felt safe and grateful. But he was also concerned for Sherlock and felt bad for keeping him awake. Sherlock needed to get his sleeping pattern in order and last night must have only made it worse. Now Sherlock was going to be grumpy and sleepy and more like a child than usual. John shouldn’t let him do that again, his Sherlock deserved a full night’s sleep. Wait, his Sherlock? Seriously, where was this possessiveness coming from?

 

But Sherlock obviously didn't feel the need for a long sleep. John glanced up as he entered the room. His hair was ruffled and his clothes were crumpled from sitting awkwardly in John’s seat. Although he was normally pretty pale, he looked more so at that moment. Sniffing slightly, he looked around while frowning, before picking up a little bowl that was sat on a round wooden table near the kitchen. John narrowed his eyes yet looked mildly amused. ‘Uh, Sherlock, what’s the ma-‘ Sherlock then pulled his arm back before hurling the bowl at the wall near the door, narrowly missing John’s head before it kept travelling two more metres behind him. The bowl shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces with an earsplittingly loud smash. John picked his chin up off the floor. ‘What the BLOODY HELL was that for!? Sherlock sniffed again, pointlessly brushed some dust that had fallen from the ceiling off his already crumpled shirt, then turned on his heel to waltz into the kitchen. ‘Stress reliever.’  
John ground his teeth. ‘Great, right, and you couldn’t have found a better way to do that? Mrs Hudson is going to go m-‘  
‘What the bloody hell was that!?’ Mrs Hudson stormed into the room. Her jaw also dropped as she saw the bits of pottery sticking out of the wallpaper and scattered across the floor. John stood up, hastily folding the laptop and depositing it on the table. ‘It was Sherlock, he thought it would be stress relieving or something- I’m so sorry, Mrs Hudson, we’ll buy you a new one as soon as possible.’ He held her upper arms in apology. ‘That’s quite alright dear. No need, I hated that old thing anyway.’ ‘I know.’ Sherlock piped up. ‘That’s not the point!’ Exasperated, she rolled her eyes, sighed, and exited the room shaking her head.  
John turned around and kicked a piece of the bowl in frustration. ‘Brilliant stress reliever, you pillock. Come and clear it up!’ ‘Busy,’ came the reply from the kitchen. John scowled and retorted, ‘Busy? Doing what?’ ‘Making us tea. You do it.’ ‘Oh for g-!’ John made a strangled noise and walked into the kitchen, glaring at the detective’s back. Snatching up the dustpan and brush, he huffed his way back to the living room to sweep up the mess.  
The kettle boiled, following a silence as both men busied themselves. Then, Sherlock spoke. ‘John. That nightmare you had seems to be a reoccurring one: therefore, I have made the decision to try and work out different ways for you to stop them or deal with them. This means I am going to be observing you every night to stop them. You’re going to have to get used to me being around you at all times to observe your daytime behaviour in correlation to your night-time behaviour. I shall also be observing your reactions to multiple stimuli and normal conversations.’ Sherlock walked around into the living room to sit on the sofa. He nonchalantly sipped his tea. John spat his out. ‘Pardon? You want to observe me while I sleep? AND every other time of the day? Uh, Sherlock, do you realise how horrendously inconvenient that is? Not to mention an invasion of privacy that I already lack with you being around.’ John felt a curious heat rise up to his ears.  
Sherlock walked until he was directly in front of John and put his face close to his. John made a noise of shock and confusion as the detective studied him once more. ‘Shall we start from now?’ Sherlock spoke quietly, his face inches from John’s. John held his breath. ‘Um, of course…’

 

Sherlock turned away and John bowed his head. Whilst definitely not thinking about how Sherlock smelled like sleep and Earl Grey tea. He walked back to the kitchen and picked up the two plates he had left on the side. Then, after grabbing two forks he shut the cutlery draw with an embarrassingly feminine swing of his hips. After depositing one of the plates and forks on Sherlock’s lap John sat down in his chair and ate his omelette. Surprisingly Sherlock ate his breakfast in silence.  
‘You know I have to work today right?’ John broke the quiet as he got up from his chair and took his plate into the kitchen.  
‘My job is noticing things and drawing conclusions from that information,’ Sherlock replied as he got up to follow John to the sink with his own plate. ‘Of course I’ve memorised your work schedule.’ Sherlock stood too close to John as he reached around him to put his plate in the warm water John was using to wash up with. John pretended he couldn’t smell the earl grey Sherlokian scent that gave him intense butterflies. He also pretended he hadn’t felt Sherlock’s hand brush lightly against his bare arm. John began the thrilling task of washing up.  
‘How are you going to study my every move if I’m at work?’ John asked, hopeful. Sherlock leant against the counter next to John.  
‘Obviously I’m going to come with you.’ Sherlock checked his phone, John froze.  
‘No you’re not.’  
‘Yes I am.’  
‘I don’t want you to.’  
‘That doesn’t matter.’  
‘It matters to me.’  
‘I don’t care. I’m going to shower.’ Sherlock put his phone away and moved towards the bathroom, smirking.  
‘I’m not happy about this Sherlock!’ John yelled in Sherlock’s direction.  
‘Of course you aren’t.’ Sherlock hollered back.  
John turned back to the sink, confused at this last sentence. However he spun back around when he remembered something - ‘And don’t use my shampoo!’ He shouted at the closed bathroom door, and his reply was the sound of the shower being turned on. He turned back around and sighed. Once the washing up was done he went to get dressed and gather his things for work, muttering under his breath the whole time about how annoying and intrusive his grumpy detective was.

 

John drummed his hands on the pockets of his jeans, making the change loose in there jingle slightly. He tried not to look straight ahead of him, where Sherlock was sat opposite, staring at John. There was complete silence in the living room as neither men said a word.  
Eventually, Sherlock spoke. '4 and a half minutes left until you put on your jacket, John.'  
'Oh for god's sake, Sherlock! Stop being so pedantic, I know what time I leave for work! Everything is perfectly fine!' John snapped at his detective. Sherlock stood up, and John noticed a glimmer in his eyes - but it was gone before he could work out what it had meant.  
'Is it now? Because my deductions are that you seem rather... uncomfortable.'  
'Oh well done, bloody genius.' John jumped to his feet, extremely frustrated. He strode over to the coat stand to put on his jacket. Checking he had his keys in his pocket, he ignored Sherlock and started down the stairs. From right behind him, the detective piped up.  
'Early today. Interesting.'  
A low growl escaped from John as he angrily walked out of the building, the grinning detective in tow.

 

‘That will only cost about 5 pounds from the chemist adjacent and it would drastically support the flexion in your knees while you walk.’  
‘Wrong. The knee support costing 5 pounds is a child’s size. The adult’s size is approximately 9 pounds, and most of the support given is mainly psychological.’ Sherlock drawled from the corner of the room. John looked at his patient and choked in astonishment and fury.  
The man in his seventies frowned in confusion as John shot daggers at his friend.  
‘Ignore him, sir, he doesn’t really know what he’s talking about. I’ll send that prescription through for those tablets, and be sure to come back in if they aren’t working for you, so that we can up your dose.’  
Sherlock opened his mouth to comment but closed it immediately after noticing John’s furious expression.  
After closing the door after the old man, John rounded on the smug looking detective.  
‘That’s the third time you’ve made me look like a prick, Sherlock, and I don’t like it! If you’re going to be around me at my workplace you’re going to have to bloody well learn to keep that mouth shut because it is seriously pissing me off!’ He strode up to him as he raised his voice, and Sherlock rose to his feet.  
As he finished off his sentence John realised he was extremely close to him, and both of his fists were clenched. He looked at the detective’s face and was disconcerted to see that he wasn’t smirking; but instead looked… different. The glint was back in his eyes again, but Sherlock shook it away again. Although this time John recognised that look, and was very taken aback.  
‘It won’t happen again, Doctor Watson,’ he whispered in a low, gravelly voice.  
And with that, Sherlock fixed his scarf and strode out of the room, leaving a faint smell of John’s coconut shampoo. John closed his eyes.


	2. Long Sleeves, Long stares.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's mind decided to unblock what he hadn't wanted to believe for years, and he confronted John. This created both tension yet a comfortably uneasy atmosphere between the two confused and sensitive men. Things are hotting up. 
> 
> Includes Sherlock, Lestrade and John in a pub. Come on, do you really want to miss out on that image?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No co-author in this chapter, it was all me :) Enjoy!

‘He’s going to die, Johnny Boy. Say goodbye!’  
‘NO! NO!’  
John thrashed in his sleep. His eyebrows were furrowed and his mouth open in disbelief. Although his body was asleep, his mind was awake.   
‘PLEASE! NO! NO!’ John screamed at the consulting criminal as he pulled the trigger against the detective’s head. Whimpering, John looked up into the sky. Thick, black blood started to rain from the sky, covering all three men in sticky gore. Moriarty, holding Sherlock’s head up to the sky by his hair, laughed manically. Blood rose from the floor and John was unable to move. His face blank, he stared at Moriarty.

He spoke this out loud, and his face as he lay in bed crumpled.  
‘Give me the gun. Kill me. Hurt me. Hurt me. Shoot me.’  
The consulting criminal tilted his head to the side.  
John screamed. ‘I SAID KILL ME! SHOOT ME! HURT ME! I WANT TO BLEED, I WANT TO FEEL PAIN! KILL ME! PLEASE JUST SHOOT ME!’ John thrashed in his bed: screaming, shaking, grabbing his head and twisting in the covers. 

Sherlock’s face was a mask of pure horror as he dove to John’s side.   
‘JOHN! WAKE UP!’  
John’s eyes fluttered open, but he didn’t stop shaking. Sherlock grabbed his friend by the shoulders and lifted him into a sitting position. John stuttered and shivered, still in the aura of his nightmare.   
Sherlock felt panic rising as he felt John’s forehead. His temperature had sky-rocketed and he was close to fitting. Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, thinking of a solution.   
Slap.  
John immediately stopped shaking and instead focused on Sherlock, eyes wide. His breathing, though rapid, was slowing down. Sherlock didn’t count how long they stared at each other for. 

 

‘You always wear long sleeves. It’s curious.’  
John blinked twice.   
‘Is it?’   
John moved back into the living room, grabbing his tea off the counter. His long-sleeved blue t-shirt had been in his wardrobe for as long as he could remember.  
‘Well, I don’t think it’s curious. I love these t-shirts, especially this one. You always wear that coat.’  
‘That coat is very important to me as a detective.’  
‘Huh, you mean it makes me look short and you all… majestic.’  
‘Majestic? Oh, please.’  
‘You totally do that on purpose! The coat collar up to accentuate your cheekbones. As if I hadn’t already noticed those...’   
Sherlock snapped his head up from his laptop and shuffled in his armchair, eyes wide. John sipped his tea and tried to type with one hand, apparently oblivious as to what he’d just said.

After last night’s nightmare, John had been slightly embarrassed, but after his first cup of tea had been completely back to normal. Sherlock knew that it hadn’t been his first nightmare like that, and that he was probably used to them. To him, that seemed somewhat worse.   
Now though, Sherlock studied John as he tapped at his laptop.   
Suddenly, Sherlock froze in shock as he realised something that he couldn’t believe he’d ever missed.  
John leant down from his chair to put his mug on the floor.  
The detective raised his hand to his hair in shock.  
John’s sleeve lifted up as his arm brushed against the armchair.  
Sherlock inhaled sharply as he saw John’s wrist.

With a cough, Sherlock composed himself as John went back to typing out their latest case.  
Sherlock’s mind was screaming as the unconscious doctor carried on with his work.

 

John ascended the stairs and frowned slightly.   
‘Uh, Sherlock?’  
The detective was stood in the doorway, his back to the stairs. From what he could see, John assumed Sherlock was in his thinking position: hands together with the tips just below his nose.   
‘Busy.’ Sherlock didn’t move.  
John ground his teeth together. ‘Of course you are. Busy bee, aren’t you? Mm hm, soooo busy. Now if you wouldn’t mind moving so that I could actually get into the room…’ John stood directly behind Sherlock, hands by his sides. When the man didn’t respond, John decided to just move him himself.   
He placed both hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and turned him 90 degrees to the right so that John now had space to step past. John paced forward, but just as he stepped sideways to move through the doorway, Sherlock opened his eyes and stepped forwards, closing all gaps between the both of them. In the afternoon glint of the sun just peeking over the houses, John swallowed. He couldn’t move, and was now pressed against both Sherlock and the doorframe.  
‘Er… Sherlock?’ John fell silent, and blushed under Sherlock’s stare.   
‘Your wrists, John.’ He stepped backwards, leaving John to visibly crumble on the spot. His eyes closed, his jaws clamped together and he inhaled deeply through his nose.  
‘There’s nothing to discuss here,’ John stated and went to distance himself from the door, but as he moved Sherlock snapped out his arm and grabbed John’s left wrist. John winced and stood still, waiting.

Sherlock walked towards John and stood in front of him, still holding his wrist. Breathing heavily, John looked towards the living room windows to avoid the detective’s gaze. Sherlock stood directly in front of John now, and carefully held the doctor’s wrist in both hands. Slowly, he rolled up the sleeve and brushed his long fingers gently over John’s cuts. There were small, faded scars on the inside, but there were two new slashes, still scabbed over from maybe a few days ago.   
‘I don’t understand.’  
‘There’s a first time for everything.’  
‘I still don’t understand. How did I miss these? And why didn’t I notice them at night in your bedroom when your arms were bare?’  
‘Maybe you didn’t expect me to be this dull and stupid.’  
‘Shut up.’

John’s head snapped back and once again, both men were staring into each other’s eyes.  
Sherlock suddenly looked embarrassed yet oddly wounded. His voice was a growling whisper, only audible due to their close proximity.   
‘Don’t- don’t say that about yourself. You’re not dull and you’re definitely not stupid.’  
John was taken aback and fought back tears. ‘Sherlock-’  
‘No, John. You’re not stupid and you’re the most interesting and tolerant man I’ve had the fortune to meet. You don’t know what thi-’ Sherlock broke off and closed his eyes, his hands still clasped around John’s wrist.  
John took his other hand and placed it over the detective’s. Surprisingly, he didn’t flinch or pull away. Instead, he looked back at John. They smiled together, both shaken and nervous, but content. They didn’t pull away for a long time, comfortable sharing the usually hidden emotions through a warm silence.

 

John growled from the sofa as a text alert sounded from his phone. ‘Three times I’ve tried to read this page! The words are starting to look funny because I’m concentrating too hard on trying to take it in.’   
Sherlock looked over his phone and smirked at John’s obvious annoyance. His mind was so easily distracted, unlike his own.  
John chucked his book on the table and reached for his phone. One eyebrow raised, he lowered his phone slightly to speak to the detective, who was studying John’s facial expressions.  
‘Lestrade. He- he wants us to go out to the pub with him, tonight.’  
‘Why?’  
‘Does there have to be a reason?’ John crossed his legs.  
‘There’s always a reason,’  
‘He just wants to have a laugh. Come on, it’ll be fun.’  
‘I don’t do pubs. Why do you like pubs?’ Sherlock scrunched up his nose in disfavour.   
‘Does there have to be a reason?’ John said once again.  
‘There’s always a reason.’ Sherlock fired back just as quickly.   
‘Alright smart arse. Stay here and stare at the ceiling. See if I care’  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Fine, I’ll join you.’  
He saw John smirk infuriatingly before he replied to his text. – ‘bring it on.’

‘Ready?’ Sherlock tightened his scarf around his neck and placed his hand lightly near the top of John’s back. The detective observed John as he awaited his reply.  
‘Always.’ John looked away and walked briskly down the stairs, leaving Sherlock to smartly brush off dust from his coat in the flat’s dim light.  
Once they were both outside, John raised a hand to call a taxi. Sherlock caught himself staring a little too long at John’s physique in his black coat. He shook his head, grunting in frustration. As a cab pulled up by the side of them, John turned around in the glow of the streetlight to look at Sherlock, whom was now shaking his head as though he had water in his ears.   
‘What on earth are you doing? Actually, never mind. Got money?’  
Sherlock nodded, and swept past John to enter the taxi.

John hopped in after him and shut the door, leaning forward to talk to the cabbie (and to check that he wasn’t a murderer or anything).  
‘Er, the King’s Head pub please, it’s down all the way to the junction there, and three left turns before you reach the next traffic lights, we’ll get out there. Thank you.’  
John leant back into his seat and glanced at Sherlock who was hugging his knees.  
Oh lordy, really, now? His mind palace? Here? John ground his teeth together and hissed.  
‘Get your feet down from the seat, Sherlock!’   
His detective simply slid his feet down, but the rest of him stayed the same: eyes closed, head moving from side to side as he mentally looked around his ‘palace.’ Unusually, however, after only about twenty seconds he opened his eyes again, his expression calm.  
‘What is it? Sherlock?’  
Sherlock simply waved him into silence, and John pulled a face as they approached their drop off point. 

John felt his ears heat up as he watched Sherlock exit the car in the dim light of the busy street. His movements were fluid, and his long coat swirled around his tall, perfect body. Perfect? Jeez, what was wrong with him?   
John looked away from the detective’s shadowy face in embarrassment as he got out the other side of the vehicle. As the cab drove away, John swept in front of Sherlock and they walked in silence to the pub.  
As they ambled in, John spotted Lestrade waving to them from a table. Joining him, Sherlock offered to buy them all drinks. However, he was quickly pushed into a seat, mumbling in annoyance, as both of the other suspicious men decided they would get the drinks themselves: they didn’t want to end up a part of one of Sherlock’s wacky ‘experiments.’

 

A few hours later, Lestrade whacked Sherlock on the back as he howled with laughter.   
All three men were drunk.   
Sherlock was trying to focus on John’s face as he frowned strangely. He was confused – he couldn’t trust his eyes; they were telling him that John now had enormous eyes and a swirling face. He felt ill.  
‘John… Distract me. I can’t fucking see properly.’  
Lestrade howled with laughter although John looked freaked – ‘Sherlock! You never swear! Okay, sorry, fine, let’s ask each other questions.’  
‘Truths! Count me-’ *belch* ‘-in!’ Lestrade was still smirking.  
‘I’m starting! Blimey, I feel like I’m back at college. Okay – Greg – what’s your worst fear?’

Another hour passed and more alcohol was consumed. Sherlock had completely changed personality, and the two other men were going to take advantage of this.  
The questions had run out of originality, so Lestrade decided to spice things up a bit: the alcohol had completely altered his sanity.   
‘Sherlock. Have you ever dated anyone?’  
Suddenly the table went silent as a slightly-less-drunk-than-the-other-two John listened intently.   
Sherlock downed the last of his glass and replied with a very noticeable slur. ‘Yes.’  
‘Was she hot?’ Lestrade giggled and wiped the head of his beer from his lips.  
At this point, Sherlock stared straight into the doctor’s eyes as he responded.  
‘Yes, he was.’  
Lestrade inhaled the last of his drink and started coughing, as John held Sherlock’s gaze, mouth slightly open. For some reason, John felt like his mind had exploded.   
‘I don’t know why that surprised me actually. Always knew there was something there, good on you mate!’ Lestrade smiled, wiping some spit off his chin with a napkin.  
‘You can pick up your chin off the floor now John, Graham-’  
‘Gregory-’  
‘-Gregory, is correct.’ Sherlock nodded drunkenly at Lestrade and looked at his watch.

John composed himself and followed suit, checking the time.   
‘Bloody-’ *belch* ‘-hell, time to head home.’  
A crash followed with a clink sound echoed around their table.  
‘Woah woah woah, careful. Not used to this sensation are you?’ John grabbed hold of Sherlock, who’d attempted to stand and instead knocked over an empty glass and a small plate.  
Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temple and groaned. ‘John… My brain, my eyes, I can’t think properly.’  
‘Oh, shame, now you can relish having an average brain until the alcohol wears off. Come on, let’s get back to the flat.’ John exchanged an entertained glance with Lestrade, and he nodded and said goodnight. 

As John practically dragged the detective towards the road, Sherlock murmured something indecipherable and at the same time grabbed John around the waist as he held himself upwards. John’s stomach erupted in butterflies as he swallowed hard.   
Hailing a taxi, John noticed that Sherlock’s hand on his body felt like it was burning through his clothes and into his skin. He was almost grateful when he was back in 221B where he could deposit the sleepy, confused detective onto the sofa.  
‘Water? Tea?’ John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock who was pulling the strangest expression he’s ever seen him wear. John fought back the urge to burst out laughing, and instead took this lack of reply as a cue to shove him into his bed.   
Within seconds, Sherlock was flat out. John smiled at his achievement. Sherlock – asleep. He should get him to drink more.   
With a sudden relishing thought, he realised that Sherlock wouldn’t be watching over him that night.   
Smiling wider, John got ready for bed quickly and quietly. Within minutes of jumping into bed he was snoring. 

His dreams that night were of a different kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback would be excellent - share if you wish, it would make my week :3


	3. Addicted to... Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it, guys! Been waiting to write this chapter for a long time ;)   
> John and Sherlock discuss their previous night out, and John gets a few injuries. How, exactly? Well, looks like you'll have to read it to find out....!
> 
> RULES!!!! - Every time a piece of music is mentioned you must listen to it at the same time as the characters. My only rule. Trust me, you'll see why...

‘John! I need help!’

John practically fell out of bed and had nearly fallen into Sherlock’s room before his eyes had even properly adjusted.  
‘Sherlock! What’s going on?’ John rubbed his eyes and stood in the doorway, panting.

As John’s eyes focused on the detective, he rolled his eyes, falling back against the door.   
Sherlock was propped up in bed, pillows up against his headboard. He had a notepad in his hands and was pulling the most ridiculous face as he squinted at his page. He wasn’t in trouble at all.   
John glanced at his watch, scowling. ‘What do you want? It’s bloody half five in the morning.’  
‘My head hurts and I can’t see. And I want some water.’  
John growled under his breath. ‘No.’

Sherlock looked up in surprise, but before he could speak John interjected again.   
‘Number one, you didn’t even say please. I’m not your servant. Number two, it’s called a hangover, you shouldn’t have been drunk last night – it’s your own fault. And number three: It’s half. Past. Five.’  
Sherlock tilted his head slightly and studied John. The doctor shuffled slightly and looked down before realising he was in his boxers.   
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Sherlock said before John even had the chance to blush.  
John looked awkwardly around the room before talking to the ceiling – ‘I’m not getting anything for you. Go to sleep. I’m going to sleep for a few more hours.’ And with that the blushing doctor exited the room, leaving behind a smug Sherlock.

John had barely closed his eyes before his phone vibrated. Reading the text, he groaned sleepily, letting his phone rest against the other side of his pillow.

 

What did you, Gavin and I talk about last night? –SH 

His name isn’t Gavin. –JW 

Unimportant. You ignored my question. –SH 

How would I remember? I was drunk too. –JW 

Wrong. You only drank about two to three pints from what I can remember. I can also tell by the tone of your voice a few moments ago that you do not in fact even have a hangover – you are simply tired. Therefore, you should clearly be able to recall what we discussed, and the fact that you are denying this fact means it was something rather important, or something that you would rather not talk about again. –SH 

Oh for god’s sake, why do you care what we talked about? –JW 

Do you really want to ask that question, John? I want to know because I dislike not knowing, especially when it comes to a conversation that I myself participated in. –SH

Well for the first hour or so, all you did was sit there sulking and drinking. You only talked after the alcohol had loosened your tongue. We played truths. You know, we asked each other questions about ourselves. –JW

How quaint and boring. –SH

You didn’t seem to think so. You seemed to be rather enjoying it, in my opinion. You told us quite a few things that I’m pretty sure you would never even mention, normally. But of course if you think it’s boring… –JW

What? What did I say? Tell me what I said. –SH

You told us that you had once dissected your brother’s pet toad when he was 12. You also told us more serious things about your life. –JW

John, I really need to know what I said. –SH  
John? –SH  
John, hurry up and tell me! –SH

Yes, hang on, I’m typing, you idiot. My phone is slower than yours and I’m not the quickest at texting. –JW

Well… You told us about your old drug habits. You also told us about how you nearly died but your brother saved you, and helped you get off the drugs. You also said that…you implied that you were gay. –JW

I hope I sneered at Mycroft’s name. I can’t believe I would mention something positive about him. Of course, it was mostly all my work anyway, he merely paid for the treatment. –SH

Really? That’s all you’re picking up on? About how you said something relatively nice about your brother? –JW

Of course, you were obviously focusing on the part about my sexuality. –SH

What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?? –JW

Sleep well, Doctor. –SH

Sherlock?? –JW  
Sherlock! –JW  
Oh for god’s sake. You really are a complete drama queen. Ugh. –JW

 

 

John grabbed his scarf and twirled around the living room, securing it around his neck in time to the music. 

It was 6:30am, and John was getting ready for work. Even though John was painfully tired and had a serious hangover that tea definitely couldn’t cure, John was happy. And, he was dancing. Wearing a scarf, and dancing. With a scarf. Dancing.

Pulling out his phone to check his reflection, John smiled and smoothed down his hair. Whilst continuously dancing, he tried to put his shoes on by hopping around the room to the music. The music, to be precise, was ‘Higher Ground,’ by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. As the bass and guitar bounced around the flat, John ignored the footsteps beginning to echo around the building.   
‘John?’ A tired slur from the door. ‘JOHN!’ Louder.  
The doctor ignored the detective’s shouts over the music and continued to jump around the room, trying to do up his shoelace on one leg.  
‘John Watson! It’s half past six in the bloody morning! I don’t even open the shop until nine! What on Earth-‘  
Mrs Hudson joined Sherlock at the door. They stared at John in complete shock and confusion; they both looked as though they had just scrambled out of bed. Well, they had. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in amusement, but his smirk swiftly vanished as he realised what was going on.  
‘Turn it off. JOHN! TURN IT OFF!’ 

Instead of turning the song off, John switched the CD to the next song: ‘The way you make me feel.’ This song blaring louder around the flat, John grinned and fell into the mantelpiece.   
‘Hey preeeeetty baby with the high heeeels onnmnnnmnnn,’ John slurred his already naturally awful singing, imitating Michael Jackson as he held his crotch and moonwalked in a circle.   
Mrs Hudson strode past, holding her ears, and unplugged the CD player from the wall. John continued to dance as he giggled to himself.   
‘What the bloody hell has gotten into you, John? It’s not normal. What’s wrong with you?’ Mrs Hudson looked both angry and concerned.   
‘It’s okay, Mrs Hudson, I’ll sort this out, very sorry to wake you up.’ Sherlock false comforted the old lady as he steered her out of the flat. Smiling sheepishly, he shut the door in her face.   
Wheeling around, Sherlock focused his glare on John.

‘You’re drunk.’  
John giggled. ‘Am I? Ooh, how did that happen? Hehehehe.’  
Sherlock walked up to him and sniffed his jumper. ‘You stink of alcohol, John. When did you even have time to drink? You hardly drank anything last ni- oh. Oh.’ Sherlock looked at him and knew. John, though drunk, seemed to also realise that Sherlock knew what had happened during the night. Sherlock swallowed hard.  
‘You had a nightmare, am I correct? I am, aren’t I? So instead of self-harming you thought you’d drink some… what is that, exactly? It smells like champagne.’  
John rubbed his eyes and hiccupped softly. ‘Yes, it’s champagne. It was for Lestrade’s birthday party. It was the only alcohol we had. It was niceeeeee.’  
John stared at Sherlock and giggled like a teenage boy.   
‘Sherlock Holmes! Are you jealous I didn’t offer you a glass? How romantic! Wait, who needs alcohol to feel relaxed, why don’t you just go ahead and kiss me?’ John sniggered and grabbed Sherlock by the collar of his pyjamas. The detective placed his hands over John’s and wrenched them off.   
‘Stop this, now, or I’ll do something I’ll regret.’  
‘Something you’ll regret? And that will be what, exactly…?’ John giggled once again and leant forwards to undo Sherlock’s dressing gown.  
*Slam*  
John slumped to the ground, a small smile still etched on his face. Breathing heavily, Sherlock glanced from his fist to his unconscious friend, then back to his fist. With a shaky sigh, Sherlock grabbed John from under the arms and dragged with difficulty back to his room. As he caught the smell of alcohol, instead of feeling angry, Sherlock suddenly found it hard not to laugh at the image of John hopping drunkenly around the living room. 

 

‘Bloody hell.’ John moved his head and muttered slightly. Pain rocketed through his skull and his eyes shot open.   
‘Bollocks!’ Grinding his teeth he tried to focus on yesterday. Nothing. No, wait, something was there… Something-  
‘Fuck!’ John stared at his ceiling in pure horror, mouth agape in shock. 

‘Have you finished swearing yet? Actually no, carry on, maybe the colourful language will do something to improve your face. It’s unpleasantly pale.’ Sherlock piped up sarkily from the doorway, and John moved his throbbing head to look at him. His room was dark, the blinds closed, and the light coming from the hallway turned the detective into a silhouette. John, blushing and disorientated, grunted.   
‘How polite.’ Pause. ‘I never knew I could dance.’  
Sherlock snorted with laughter but disguised it as a crafty cough. ‘That’s not what I was most shocked about.’  
John stopped smiling and frowned. ‘Wait, what else did I do? I can’t remember anything! Damn it! What did I do?’  
There was a longer pause as Sherlock’s face turned expressionless.   
‘…You pissed Mrs Hudson off.’ Sherlock lied, keeping the most important detail to himself – John really couldn’t remember anything. Maybe it was better for him not to know.   
John chuckled, relieved. ‘Ah, oh dear, I’ll make it up to her. Bloody hell, you worried me then, I thought I’d done something else…’ He frowned, still slightly confused, scrabbling for memories.  
Sherlock silently slipped out of the doorway and back to his own room before the doctor could address him again. 

 

John walked slowly from the kitchen, bright orange mug in his right hand. Avicii’s ‘Addicted to You’ was playing on the radio, and John smiled briefly at his favourite song, remembering a night at a club with Lestrade. As he made his way to the sofa, he glanced at Sherlock, who was reading the newspaper. He noticed that the detective’s right hand was slightly red. As a reflex, John’s hand flew to the left hand side of his temple and winced at the severe pain shooting though his head. And all at once, John remembered. He remembered everything.  
*Smash*  
The grip on his cup of tea loosened, and John barely felt his foot break, barely felt the blood seeping between his toes, barely felt the music heighten as his heart hammered in his chest.   
Sherlock was straight there. He hadn’t even seen him move. How was that possible?  
‘John?? John! What’s the matter? Are you alright?’ His face was familiar. Had he seen that expression before?  
‘Oh my god, John, John your foot’s bleeding. Oh my g- Is it broken? John? Answer me!’ Sherlock looked panicked at John’s completely stoic face, but then John whispered something over the crescendo of music.  
‘Did you punch me because I was drunk, or because I tried to kiss you?’ John seemed detached, frightened. He stared straight through Sherlock until he replied.   
‘Because you weren’t conscious. You couldn’t remember anything.’ Sherlock looked straight into John’s eyes.  
‘I’m sober now.’  
‘Yes, you are.’ As the music reached the chorus, the bass vibrated through the both of them.

Suddenly, John launched forwards, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. Still conscious, John smirked, his hands reaching for Sherlock’s chest. The detective, heart pounding, kissed John back passionately and urgently. Both men stumbled, John moving backwards towards the door. After a few seconds, however, a rather out of breath doctor pulled away. Sherlock, breathing heavily, looked confused.   
‘My foot, is, er, actually quite painful. Small fracture. Still bleeding.’  
After a few heated seconds, both men burst out laughing, hands intertwined.

**Author's Note:**

> Please share and comment, it would mean a lot as we want to know if we should carry on with another chapter. Hope you enjoyed!


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